Sunday, March 6, 2011


The sun dips
under a seashell sky.
We slip
between the hedges
where only nobles
have the key.

Without ball of thread or scroll
we lose our way.
The fountains splash
And the owl,
out of favour,
claims the night
and hoots.

We spiral in -
somewhere here
is the centre.
Past foxes
apes, and mice.
Round again.

Somewhere here, I say,
there’s a secret door,
though you doubt it.
We search, finding only
the stork taking the bone
from the wolf’s throat.

Dawn comes,
the door opens
A bell jingles on a cat,
A crow flies overhead,
Cheese in its beak.
It will not speak.

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